


The Owls of Mistwood

by NothingJustScreaming



Category: A Song of Ice and Fire - George R. R. Martin, Game of Thrones (TV)
Genre: Gen
Language: English
Status: In-Progress
Published: 2015-04-10
Updated: 2015-04-15
Packaged: 2018-03-22 06:32:17
Rating: Mature
Warnings: Creator Chose Not To Use Archive Warnings
Chapters: 4
Words: 8,391
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/3718648
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/NothingJustScreaming/pseuds/NothingJustScreaming
Summary: <blockquote class="userstuff">
              <p>Catelyn Tully dies on the birthing bed, and Eddard Stark, lord of Winterfell, takes his erstwhile lover Ashara Dayne as wife.<br/>In the Stormlands, on the peninsula of Cape Wrath, House Mertyns, an ancient line of nobility descendent from petty Kings, rules from the citadel of Mistwood, a castle shadowed in fog and mysteries. Led by the ailing Mary Mertyns and her son Jacen Mertyns, they will leave their mark on the history of Westeros. Now comes the Night of the Owls of Mistwood.<br/>(Pretensions aside, it's an OC story where the main characters are of an in canon house. Expect many betrayals)</p>
            </blockquote>





	1. Prolouge - Catelyn Tully Stark

 

It was a bright day in Riverrun. The winter had given a short burst of sunlight grace to pierce through the clouds, and the castle was rosy with relief. Catelyn stretched her muscles as she awoke from her nightly slumber, only stopping the exercise when a kick from the Stark within her forced her to curl up in sudden pain.

Her father was busy fighting in the war, her uncle there also. Her husband, gods, it was odd to think of the quiet man she had been forced to marry in the stead of his handsome brother as her husband, was leading the armies of Robert Baratheon after the man had been injured from his duel with Rhaegar Targaryen. She smiled at the thought, this long war was coming to an end.

Her handmaidens appeared and helped her into a newly tailored dress to help accommodate her large belly. She giggled as one of the ladies accidentally tickled her side, then went back to her bed, where she sat up, propped against the headboard, while reading through letters she had received over night.

One was from her father, whose rare letters were often filled with careful instructions and tailored reports which kept critical information out in case of interception. She sighed as she read through the instructions on how much barely was to be gathered, which hamlets were to be patrolled, and how many rations should be gathered in case an enemy army approaches, but from what she gathered such an event was impossible. The dragons have been beaten back, their silver prince fallen. What is there left to attack with?

She moved to the second note, and frowned. It was marked only with a silver stamp, which was engraved with a spear surrounded by a circle of broken shackles. She racked her brain to recall which house had the markings for a symbol. She resolved to ask the master when he next appeared to check on her health, as he inevitably would shortly do.

She opened the note carefully, and the contents were unexpected, to say the least.

Lady Catelyn Stark,

Congratulations on the birth of your new child. I am certain you must be overfull with joy. I pray you have many happy days celebrating every moment with the babe.

A faithful servant to your husband,

Dogowll, Lord of the Hollow Isle

Catelyn was unsure what to make of the note. It was sweet, a truly kind sentiment, even. But, it was clearly sent by someone who had taken too much stock in a false rumor. Why else would it arrive before she had delivered her child? Surely, it was ill luck to presume a child would be safely delivered, but he hadn’t referred to the child by gender, which surely must mean he didn’t know, so what other option was there?

And this Lord Dogowll, and what a peculiar name that was, had a lordship she’d never heard of. The Hollow Isle? Is that in the Iron Isles? The Stormlands, perhaps? She was certain it wasn’t from the North, she’d memorized the houses of her husband’s homeland when she was his brother’s betrothed.

Catelyn frowned, but decided to put down the note. She went to the next one, and smiled when she realized it was from her uncle. He had written from the capitol, and told her at length what her father was doing (in less than flattering terms), and that her husband was leading forces south to relieve Storm’s End.

He closed the note with a paragraph that made her smile fade.

Be careful, Cat. We’ve been doing well here, but I have a bad feeling about all of this success. I’m certain something will happen, something that will hurt us where we least expect. Make certain of your safety.

Catelyn closed her eyes and offered a quick prayer to the mother that her uncle was just being paranoid. Then her eyes flashed open after a jolt of pain shook her. She screamed for the maester, who came rushing into the room.

Catelyn winced in pain, opening her eyes for long enough to see little Edmure being escorted from the room by her sister. “I thought you said the baby wouldn’t come for...”

“Not now, Edmure,” Lysa scolded as the two left.

Catelyn felt her heart pound in her chest, and cold sweat run down her face.  Lysa is right, it is too early.  The master had her positioned to birth, and her vision went red.

She could barely hear the demands to push, only felt the pain explode through her. Her eyes closed, every moment felt like days, every minute a year. Finally, she heard the sound of wailing pierce her ears.

“A boy! My Lady, you’ve given birth to healthy baby boy!” the maester cried. She opened her eyes, and saw the babe be placed gingerly in her arms.  Her son, she thought with sudden giddiness. The pain continued to arc in her, but she ignored it.

She memorized the face of the baby boy, when she heard her sister ask for a name, “Robb” she replied, having thought of it long before, but her words were choked on more pain. The maester suddenly said, “She’s losing too much blood.”

Catelyn gripped harder to Robb. She felt Lysa try to pry him from her arms but she held him even closer. She would have continued this attempt until another shooting arc of pain startled her long enough for her son to be taken away.

Pain gripped her, and her red vision deepened. She barely made out a sudden cry of, “Cat!” from a boy’s voice.  Edmure, she thought as her vision darkened. The master kept pressing something against her but she couldn’t feel it. Her entire body slowly began to numb from the constant shock of pain. Then everything went black.


	2. Gareth I

**Gareth**

A breeze blew through the forest and up the hill that held the castle of Mistwood, causing a young man to clutch closer to the light, black cloak marked with a white owl he wore. His friend payed no mind, only continuing in the deployment of a machine.

“Are you certain this is a good idea?” Gareth looked over nervously at his dornish compatriot.

“No,” Trystane admitted with a smile and a wild look in his charcoal eyes, “That’s why I’m going first.” he said as he took off his orange cloak and put both hands on the metal and wood contraption hanging loosely from a string that was nailed on one end to the castle wall, and the other disappeared into the distance over the rooftops of the town. The device was a metal box, that had two wooden spigots hanging out of either end, and inside the box was three metal wheels on axles.

“Then maybe we shou...” Gareth began, nervously eyeing the device he built, but it was too late. Trystane, with a whoop of excitement, lept off of the edge of the wall, flying down the line, “Arse” Gareth muttered, and ran along the long wall towards the staircase downwards.

Garreth ran out of the castles gates, barely hearing startled remarks from the gate guards of “My lord?” as he ran down the steep path towards the town. He glanced up to see his friend disappear below the buildings of the town in a blur of brown. He cursed again, and kept running toward the anchor, atop the tavern.

The people of the town turned to see him run, many frowning at his desperation. One old man laughed, “The young owl is flying. Where? Only he knows!” and the people on the busy market street laughed at the jape. Gareth couldn’t help the scowl come to his face, but he kept running to the inn.

He arrived just in time to see his friend climb off of the inn. Gareth ra up to him, and he laughed, “Seven hells, what a rush!”

Gareth shook his head, “You’re lucky to be alive, Wells.”

He smiled flashed mischievously, “Am I? That doesn’t bode well for you, then.”

Gareth sighed, closing his brown eyes in frustration, “I’m not going to...”

“Well, well, well, what do we have here?” came a gruff voice from behind them. Gareth turned heel to face a burly man, with broadsword drawn, standing next to another man who had his hand on a sword at his side, “The Gold Owl’s son and ward, standing unguarded in a shadowy street next to a worn out inn.” the man laughed, “You two are worth a pretty penny.”

Trystane stepped forward, drawing a long knife from beneath his doublet, and Gareth half heartedly drew his own sword. He hated fighting, loathed it. His master-at-arms thought it was funny how he was routinely bested by Trystane who was a head shorter than him. He loathed the man’s teasing, and only practiced his swordplay when he absolutely had to. Of course, his lack of practice only made his worse, which in turn made the damned man’s teasing worse.

The other man chuckled, “You’re the son of the gold owl? Have you ever held a sword before, boy?”

Gareth swallowed, knowing his lack of skill was showing. He tensed, prepared to fight as best he could when another voice made him smile in relief, “You are very brave to threaten a man’s grandson and ward in the shadow of his castle.”

Gareth looked up and saw the figure of his smithing master, holding an arming sword in his good hand. Standing next to him was the grim faced captain of his grandfather’s captain of guard, ser Renly of Stony Sept.

The first man ran up to bring his sword down against Renly, but he was far faster. He blocked the blow easily, using his left hand to send an armored fist into the man’s head. He fell over, cringing in pain, and the knight finished him with a cut to the neck.

The next man turned to run, but Trystane threw his knife into the man’s thigh. The smith then kicked the man’s back, forcing him into the ground. The man retrieved Trystane’s knife, then plunged it into the vagrant’s neck.

Gareth shuddered from the sudden murder. It wasn’t that was the first time he’d seen another man die, but it had always disquieted him. He thought that may be the reason he never tried very hard to be proficient with weapons.

“Lord Gareth,” the solemn smith said, looking critically at him.

Gareth gulped, “Master Qhorin.” he addressed him back. He was an intimidating man, but Gareth thought of him as a second father in many ways. His real father had hired him from Qohor to train him many years ago, and Gareth couldn’t count the amount of times he had spent watching in awe as the man worked.

“Your grandfather has called you to his solar to speak about certain... matters.” Qhorin said, looking Gareth up and down, “He emphasized the need for your haste.”

Gareth nodded quickly and, with a glance at Trystane, who was himself being scolded by ser Renly, ran back the way he had only just ran down. When he finally reached the third floor solar of his grandfather, he was out of breath. He keeled over, briefly, to regain himself, then, as he had countless time before, politely knocked at the great, iron owl emblazoned, oak doors.

“Enter,” came the creaking voice of his grandfather. Gareth slipped through the passage and walked, calmly as he could, to the table where his father was sitting in front of his grandfather. He sat next to him, and asked, in his most polite voice, “You summoned me, grandfather?”

The old man coughed a little, before saying, “You must stop this display around the castle at once. You are a man of six and ten name days, you cannot continue with this childish behavior.” he commanded with little ceremony.

Gareth frowned, “I tried to get Trystane to stop.

“Tried, did you?” his father asked with his sly smile on his face, “You must have toiled tremendously, then. Though, I must say this for Trystane, he has suddenly developed quite a skill to smith, if he could create a contraption such as that one.”

 _How did he know about that?_ He had shown a drawing of the device to his friend, and Trystane had demanded he make it and allow him to test it. Gareth looked down in shame, “I’m sorry, father.”

His grandfather cleared his throat, “Regardless, that is not why you have been summoned.” The Penrose man passed a piece of parchment across the table. “Read,” the old man commanded.

_Lady Mertyns,_

_On behalf of Robert of the House Baratheon the first of His Name, King of the Andals and the First Men, Lord of the Seven Kingdoms and Protector of the Realm, you have been summoned to King’s Landing to be audited by the master of coin. You are to send a raven informing of your planned departure, and to present all accounts of your transactions to the King to clear false allegations against your name. Failure to comply will be assumed as guilt of the crimes of smuggling and trading in illegal goods._

_Sincerely,_

_Varys, master of whispers to King Robert Baratheon_

Gareth looked at his father, “I thought the king was going north?”

“He is, or he already has gone north and is there now.” Jacen Mertyns confirmed, “This is a summons from the small council.”

 _That does not bode well, does it?_ Gareth looked at his grandfather, “What shall we do?”

His grandfather scowled, “Obviously, we will go to the capitol and present our accounts to the council. But we will have them wait until the king returns to appease those with accounts with us.”

Gareth considered this before asking, “All of us?”

His father answers this time, “No, only myself and you. We must travel with some haste if we are to try and convince the council to await the arrival of the king.”

His grandfather adds, “You’re to represent our house well in the capitol. I must stay and tend to the castle’s affairs, as your grandmother is ill,” _My grandmother is always ill, and you’ve always managed the castle’s affairs,_ “Willem must prepare for his wedding, and Mina is far too young to be of use in such a journey.” He coughed again, before continuing, “You know that the ventures your father has partaken in have brought wealth and power back to House Mertyns. It is crucial that this go well so that those business endeavors may continue, so take this seriously.”

 _Mina is far more capable than you give her credit for_ “When are we to depart? And for how long?”

“In three days.” His father answers, "We aren't certain when we'll return, but we shall at least be back for your brother's wedding." It was strange to think that his brother would be wed soon, he had been betrothed to Allyria Dayne for so long now, it seemed he always would be.

"That is well, then," Gareth replied.

His father smiled, “Prepare for the journey until then. You may go.” Gareth nods and gets up to leave, but before he passed the door his father adds, “I believe master Qhorin wanted to see you at the forge.” Gareth nodded again, and made his way to the opposite side of the castle.

He went through the door to the courtyard, and smiled at the wafting aroma of the flowers around him. The mists of these forests water the plants here well, making them grow in great volume and in many different shapes and forms. When he reaches the most recent additions to the castle, he feels a familiar sense of peace wash over him.

He had loved the great stone forge dearly, as it had been a gift from his father. He had always been interested in smithing, he couldn’t quite recall why, but he knew that when he was a child, when his brother was playing knight, he was playing smith. His mother had been horrified, but his father had encouraged it. When he was eight name days old, he had been gifted the stone forge and the Qohori master to train him.

He entered the forge, and found jewelers pliers and hammer arrayed in front of him. This was a ritual that they had established early in his apprenticeship, where Qhorin would put out the tools he would need for the day’s work. It started because he had started smithing when he was too young to reach up to the tools on the high shelves, but now was simply a tradition between the master and student. He grabbed the tools and put them in the smith’s smock he then dressed himself in.

He walked next to the master, who was working on heating what looked to be silver, “ Your father has told you, then?”

“I am to travel to the capitol.” Gareth confirmed as the smith moved the metal from the heat and placed it onto the stone work surface. Gareth glanced up at the drawing of the piece that was inevitably displayed for reference. _Qhorin does have a very particular way about him._

“I will not be joining you.” Qhorin confirmed solemnly. Gareth nodded, hiding his disappointment at the fact, “I do have a request of you, however,” his master said as Gareth began working the silver into the shape of an owl.

“What can I do for you, master Qhorin?” he asked, as he placed the metal back into the flame to be heated up to the point it could be worked.

“I have an old friend who works in the city, Tobho his name is.” Qhorin puts the metal back into the workspace and watches his apprentice with great interest, “I would like you to take a letter to him, along with a piece I have done and a few sketches.”

Gareth nods in response, “Of course, master Qhorin.” He looks down and continues his work with the owl. They work for hours more in silence, until the image of the Owl, talons out as if grasping prey, was finished. Master Qhorin took out the sword that this had been made for, a gift, begrudging though it may be, for his brother, and set the silver owl in the cross guard. Gareth too the blade and went through the finishing touches with practiced ease, and before long held a finished sword.

The man smiled at him, “Well done. You should deliver that now, given you’ll be gone for his name day.” Gareth bowed and took the sword in his hands, putting it into a sheath and slinging it lazily over his shoulder. He went down the familiar path towards the training yard, where his brother, Willem would inevitably be showing off.

His relationship with his brother had never been rosy. They were too different, it was all over both of them. His brother was hot headed, quick tempered, and crude but gregarious and extroverted. Gareth was shy, quiet around those he did not know and trust, but even, like well tempered steel, and thoughtful. Where his brother had nearly mastered the sword by his tenth nameday, Gareth had begun the path to becoming one of the best smiths Westeros had ever known, or at least he hoped he was. They didn’t even look the same, Willem taking after his mother’s blond hair and blue eyes, whereas it was often commented that Gareth was like a twin to his father at his age with his dark brown eyes and darker brown hair. That was unfair, though, as Gareth was taller than his father.

Gareth sighed at the thought as he entered the courtyard, where, as expected, Willem was sparring with the master at arms. He turned and raised an eyebrow at his brother’s approach, “Gareth, here to spar?”

Gareth ignored his brother’s veiled insult, “I’m going to be in the capitol for your name day, so I thought I would give this to you now.” He held the scabbard between his hands, presenting it to his brother.

Willem walked forward curiously, sheathing his practice blade and picking up the scabbard from his brother. He unsheathed the blade, and held it up to the sun. The metal of the blade was sharp as a razor and etched down the center with the words of house Mertyns, “Now comes the night,” and in the light of the sun glowed with a strange white streak that seemed to ripple throughout the metal. Gareth smiled at his brothers awe struck face, _getting that white ripple was bloody difficult._

His brother studied him carefully, “Thank you, Gareth.” he decided eventually.

“You should name it, all good swords have names,” Gareth suggested. It was more for his own sake than his brothers. Afterall, he was proud of his work, and it deserved some recognition.

“I shall call it mistblade,” he declared. He gave one last nod to his brother before going back to sparring. Gareth was all too happy for it, and he turned heel and walked away from the scene.

He gave a glance up at the castle, the venerable fortress that had housed his family for years, and smiled. Not that he didn’t appreciate it, but he was anxious to see the world again like he had when he was a young lad, sailing to the free cities with his family. He looked to the horizon and saw the fog rolling over the forests towards the castle’s lonely hill, the sun’s light turning crimson and dancing in the mist. Gareth smiled, _Now comes the night, indeed._

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Introducing our new members of the cast. If y'all have the time to let me know what you think of them, I'd be much obliged.


	3. Ashara I

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> A look into the Stark Household

 

The Lady of Winterfell sighed, smiling blissfully at the ceiling, soaking in the warmth her husband provided. She nuzzled her head closer to his chest, earning a small sigh from him. These were the moments she treasured the most, when she could simply lay with Ned and forget about the world for a while.

She remembered when she first came north, all those years ago. She'd gone by ship, and she had shivered the whole way up. It wasn't until she had gotten within the walls of Winterfell, after she had wed Eddard, that she finally had finally felt some warmth in these lands.

She smiled at the memory of the wedding, when she felt a little hand grab at the nightshirt she had been wearing. She opened her eyes to see little Rickon frowning at her. She gave a tired smile, “What is it, my love?”

“Ahwya's being mean again.” he reported, tears welling in his eyes.

“Oh poor baby,” Ashara cooed while bringing her youngest into her arms.

Eddard growled slightly and turned in his sleep. Ashara gave him a glance before looking at her youngest again, “Go find Alys, I'll be out in just a moment.”

The boy nodded sadly and waddled his way out of the room. Ashara rose to her feet gently, making sure not to bother her slumbering husband. She dressed in a modest gown, wearing only the silver star necklace she kept as a reminder of her home and heritage.

She found her son, as she expected, waiting at the door, looking expectantly at her arrival. She lifted him into her arms, causing him to giggle despite the water in his eyes. They went the way along the passages of the castle, until they found her youngest daughter pacing furiously through the great hall, while her eldest chided her.

“It's not fair, why do they get to fight but I don't?” Arya demanded.

Alys shook her head, “Because they're boys who will become men, while you're a girl who will become a lady.”

“Ladies in Dorne get to fight, and the Mormont ladies fight.” Arya countered, swinging around a stick as if it were a sword.

“You are neither a lady of Dorne nor a Mormont, you are a Stark of Winterfell.” Alys said with a smile.

Arya scowled in response, until she saw her mother's approach. Ashara looked at her youngest son, “Did she not want to play?”

Rickon nodded, looking reproachfully at his sister. Ashara held him closer and walked to her daughter's side, “Arya, what's the matter?”

“Why can't I fight like Robb, Arthur, Bran and Jon?” she demanded, frowning.

Ashara sat down at the nearby bench, “Because Robb, Arthur, Bran, and Jon need to learn to fight, because they will be lords and knights who will need to defend the realm.”

All Ashara received was a glare, “Visenya Targaryen fought.”

“Visenya Targaryen had a dragon, love.” Ashara countered.

“I have Nymeria,” Arya said, with a glint in her eye.

Ashara sighed, _I knew I shouldn't of let these beasts into the castle, but did Ned listen?,_ “Talk to your father,” she decided eventually, knowing it would likely just be sent back to her.

Arya frowned, but nodded, knowing that she would get no better from her. Alys sighed, “I tried to tell her.”

“It's alright, Alys. Where are your brothers?”

“Robb's out in the yard with Jon. I don't know where Bran or Arthur are.” Her eldest child replied, smiling.

“Bran's climbing.” Rickon supplied, before asking his eldest sister, “Do you wanna play?”

“Alright, but we have to play with Sansa and Princess Myrcella.” Alys replied, taking a smiling Rickon from Ashara.

“Try and keep him out of trouble. You know how he can be.” Alys nodded at the comment before leaving to find the princess.

Ashara found her way into the courtyard, where her eldest son was sparring with his cousin under the watchful eye of the Blackfish.  _Though cousin by which Stark, he doesn't know,_ she thought, knowing the danger the current royal visit was putting her family in.

The two fought well, in a manner that reminded her of her brother, all those years ago. The Tully born Stark heir fought tooth and nail with Jon. Blow after blow was blocked, parried or dodged as the two danced with blades like masters of the craft. Eventually, Robb's sword was caught on the hilt, and with a single pull, he was disarmed.

The red headed Stark laughed, “Well fought, Snow.”

“And you, Stark.” Jon jested in return, smiling from ear to ear.

Ashara called out Robb's name, who turned heel and, wide eyed, asked, “Mother, what can I do for you?”

Ashara smiled, knowing that calling her mother was a deliberate attempt to dissuade his guilt, “Dear son, where is the crown prince?”

“I haven't seen Joffrey today, perhaps he's attending to important matters of the state.” Robb supplied, clearly knowing he was in trouble.

Ashara gave a glare to Brynden, “Ser Brynden, I am certain you must have been aware of Robb's duty to seeing to the prince, surely.”

“My apologies, Lady Ashara, it must have slipped my mind,” the old knight replied with a roll of his eyes.

“Clearly,” Ashara replied with a knowing smile. She got on well with the sworn protector of the Stark heir, now if not when they first met. She looked back at her goodson, “Robb, you understand your father is leaving on the morrow. You must step up to your duties as heir to Winterfell, now more than ever.”

Robb looked down, “Yes, mother.”

“Good, now you and Jon will go and invite the prince to join you. Now I have to go find your brother, gods only know what he's been up to.” Ashara said, when Theon Greyjoy suddenly appeared in the doorway.

He gave his dazzling smile, “Bran is climbing the Old Keep again.”

Ashara sighed, “Thank you, Lord Greyjoy.” She made her way across the yard, to the side of the tower where her second son was climbing, while his older brother was smiling up at him.

“Arthur, why is your brother already half-way up the tower and you haven't told him to climb back down?” Ashara scolded.

The boy turned, “He said he was going to get higher than he ever had before. I wanted to see if he could do.”

“And if he can't? Arthur, I always thought you to be the level headed child, but I find you encouraging this?” Ashara demanded.

Arthur looked down, “Sorry mother.”

Ashara payed no attention to the display of humility, and instead looked up to see her ascending son, “Bran!” she called.

He turned from his grip on the tower, “Mother?”

Ashara heard a low whimpering from the boys direwolves, but she ignored it, “Come down here this instant.”

“But mother, I'm gonna go higher than anyone else” Bran tried as a retort, realizing it weak he included, “Please, mother?”

Ashara sighed, “Fine, but you must attend the feast tonight. Your father departs on the morrow.” She spun to face her eldest son, well, her eldest son from her own womb, “Go meet your brother in the sparring ring, and try and be nice to the princes.”

“Yes mother,” Arthur obliged, before running to the ring.

Ashara gave another glace up to Bran when a servant came to her side, “My Lady, maester Lewin has received a letter for you.”

“Indeed? I will go to him immediately. Have you any word of the Lannisters?”

“The siblings are taking their breakfast together while the princes and princess are with your own children, my Lady.”

Ashara smiled, “Good, then I will see them later in the day.” She walked the way to the maester's chambers, where, at the door, was the elderly man, note in hand.

“From Lord Mertyns, my Lady.” reported the old man.

She looked at the letter's gray wax seal marked with an owl, only confirming the information the maester gave, “Thank you, Maester Lewin.”

She turned around and read the note.

_Lord and Lady Stark,_

_It has come to my attention that King Robert is planning on offering the position of Hand of the King to Lord Eddard. As I am certain you are aware, the long held betrothal between my eldest son, Willem, and Lady Ashara's sister, Allyria, is finally to be completed. Should Lord Stark be traveling south as hand of the king, or, indeed, for any other reason, it would be our privilege to have you as guests to the wedding._

_A friend always,_

_Lord Jacen Mertyns_

 

_Incidentally, if you do end up as Hand of the King, we probably will cross paths. They have decided that it would be a good ~~waste~~ use of their time to audit my bank. Regardless, the wedding will be a few moons from now. We wish you all the best._

 

Ashara smiled at the last paragraph. It comforted her to know that Jacen's peculiar sense of humor had not left him. It had been so long since they had seen the Mertyns, and what a group they were. She was certain that, if his sons were anything like their father, Robb and Arthur would simply adore them.

She walked a good way towards the room the Lannisters were eating in when she happened into her husband, “Ned, we've gotten a letter from Jacen.”

“Mertyns?” Ned replied, and then smiling at the confirming nod, “He's a good man, though a shrewd one. What did he say?”

“He's invited us to my sister's wedding.” she replied, excitement in her eyes.

“Allyria is to be married already?” Ned replied, frowning, “It seems only yesterday she was a young girl, coming to visit her nieces and nephews.”

“It does, but she is a maiden flowered now.” Ashara confirmed, “The wedding is to be held in Mistwood, but Jacen wrote that he has business in the capitol that may well keep him long enough to see you.”

Ned smiled, “It will be good to see him again.” then he hesitates, “Although...”

“Jacen didn't become King, Ned,” Ashara replied, understanding at once, “He's only got what he started with, heir to a castle in the Stormlands.”

“He's become richer,” Ned comments.

“Yes, that he has,” Ashara has to agree. Even in the North, the rising wealth of the Gold Owl was legendary, as was his skill in maintaining it, “But he was never precisely poor.”

Ned shrugs his shoulders, “I know, but with Robert the way he is...”

Ashara put a hand to her husband's cheek and kissed him, “I understand, love.”

Ned smiled before looking up, “I'm certain that when you arrive they will be more than happy to see you.”

“I am as well,” Ashara smiled, “And I will travel there as soon as Robb is ready here. Will you see the Tullys on your way south?”

“Nay,” Eddard replied, “Riverrun is too far out of the way, but Hoster sent an invitation, and wished us all the best.”

“That's too bad, we haven't seen them since the wedding,” Ashara frowned slightly, “I've heard that Edmure and Asha have had a number of little trouts since then.”

“Aye, Catelyn and Edwyn, I believe,” Ned said, recalling quickly, then frowning.

Ashara gave a concerned look, “She deserves to be remembered.” She remembered the Lady of Riverrun well. She once wished much ill on her, but after she had received it, she realized that it had been a petty thing. The poor girl died birthing the child of the brother of the man she wished to marry.

“She does,” Eddard agreed, “Robb was happy when he heard the name. I think he wonders about her.”

“It's only natural. We all would, if we had mothers we'd never met.” Ashara replied with a sage nod.

Then a servant came crashing into the hall, “My Lord, My Lady, It's the little lord.”

“What? Who?” demanded Eddard, his lordly voice suddenly overcoming the quiet one he reserved for the little moments between them.

“Lord Bran, he fell!”

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> So I added two new Starks, Arthur, who is Arya's twin, and Alys, who was originally the stillborne babe of Ashara. We will learn more about why both Ashara and Alys lived, but until then, I hope enjoy this.


	4. Jacen I

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> My new favorite character to write. Here we learn about what makes house Mertyns at all noteworthy.

King's Landing never changed. It still stank, still festered under the rule of a bad king, still seethed with the vipers who called it home. Jacen hated it, as did his son. 

Ah, poor Gareth, the quiet owl, if he was anything. Brilliant but innocent, kind but suspicious, and above all else, capable of terrible acts in the maintenance of power. He knew, he'd seen him do it before. Whenever the boys who wandered the castle called a group and he took charge, an act which was admittedly uncommon because of the boys shyness, they would find themselves his loyal servants until he dismissed them, and woe to any who would challenge that rule. The boy wielded power like the Kingslayer wielded a blade.

Needless to say, he was Jacen's favorite. That's why he'd brought him here, of course. The boy would need to learn how true power operates, how these fools who play political games think to better themselves. He had no doubt the boy would make mistakes, but he needed him to make them while he was watching and correcting, so that when the time came, he could take over the power Jacen had so carefully cultivated.

Which reminded him, he had to see to retaining that power. Jacen knew that there would be greeters at the King's Gate and had, as such, deliberately moved north to go through the Lion's Gate. He had to enter the city in time to prepare his residence without being whisked away to the small council chambers.

They rode through the city until they arrived at a large building off of the top of the street of steel. It was high on Rhaenys' hill, and as such the building was handsome, made of stone and and well varnished wood, and looked over the city and the water beyond. They entered quickly, their small party finding the accommodations plentiful. Jacen had selected the building long ago, when he had last visited the city, as a place of residence. He bought it and had a small cadre of servants attend to its maintenance.

Jacen smiled at his son and ward's wonderment. The building was furnished by an old friend of his, an architect who he had done regular business with. The man had tiled the house in marble, and had tastefully crafted silver adornments of owls in thicket to accentuate the floorspace. The furniture was all rich wood from the summer isles, and, the crowning piece, was a beautiful forge that was fully equipped in the back of the house. Gareth was overjoyed.

Jacen gave the two a smile, commanding them to stay and direct the preparation of the quarters, which they were all too happy to do. How his ward had convinced him to allow him to join them on the journey was a mystery to Jacen, but he knew it was likely for the best. Gareth needed a companion who could defend him, given how Jacen had deliberately not emphasized that in his youth. He had hoped he would find one who did not have a lordship, or indeed any titles to worry about, but he was happy enough with the lad.

Jacen had his men leave the city and renter where they were expected, the King's Gate. They rode into the keep with their escorts, and when they arrived in the great hall, three men stood, smiling and ready to greet them. Jacen recognized the men at once, Littlefinger, Varys the spider, and grand maester Pycelle, all here to welcome him.  _ How very suspicious. _

“M...my...my lord Mertyns... It...is an honor to... greet you into the city...” stumbled the ancient grand maester.

“Yes, yes Pycelle, I believe lord Mertyns would prefer we finish welcoming him before next summer comes.” interrupted Baelish, “A pleasure, Lord Mertyns.”

“And you, Petyr Baelish, is it not?” Jacen replied coolly, “I must say this is quite an assembly. Three members of the small council all here to welcome me, a minor lord's heir. I'm honored truly.”

The spider smiled, “Had you been a normal minor lord's heir, we likely wouldn't have sent quite the greeting party but, as you are the gold owl, my lord, you are of a certain importance.”

“I didn't know nicknames held such weight in the capitol. Had I known, I would have insisted on something much more tame.” Jacen replied.

“The copper owl, perhaps?” quipped the master of coin.

“I was imagining more along the lines of the 'rather forgettable and certainly doesn't need to inconvenience the small council much less the king owl'” Jacen japed in counter.

“You don't desire us to inspect your actions, my lord?” Varys asked, “I must say that is quite disturbing.”

“I'm afraid you're mistaken, Lord Varys,” Jacen replied with a sigh, “I cannot allow you to. At least, not until the king has returned from the north.”

“And why ever not?” Varys replied, courteously.

“Because I would be breaking solemn oath to do anything in my power protect the investments of those who entrust their gold into my care. The king provides insurance that you will not simply take any gold you find in my records and, when the king returns, say that it was a run away courtier and I have no one to blame but myself.” Jacen explained with a smirk.  _ I know how this game is played, better than any of you. That's why I don't play it very often. _

“You seem to imply that you would place blame on the king, and demand recompense from him. That is dangerously close to treachery,” Varys replied with a suspicious look.

“It is merely insurance. I don't intend to use it, but I would be breaking oath if I didn't demand it.” Jacen said with a nod.

“Lord Varys, I must agree with Lord Mertyns assessment,” Littlefinger supplied, “You cannot expect others to make an investment on you if you do nothing to protect it.” he said with a smirk matching Jacen's.  _ Wily, this one needs to be watched. _

“I see,” Varys said, aggrievedly, “Perhaps you could provide us with something, however unsubstantial, then? We will need to be able to report something to the new hand, when he arrives.”

Jacen nodded, “I have had a collection of overview documents assembled, they are here with my guard,” he gestured towards his companion, ser Braith, who carried a large stack of paper that went from the tall man's navel to his chin, “That should give you some idea as to what is in the other documents.”

The grand maester looked taken aback, “M...My lord, that...that's an overview?”

“Yes grand maester, the other documents are in three carts which accompanied us on our journey here,” Jacen dipped his head in false reverence, “These are simply documents which cannot lead one to specific money, such as accounts, investments, shipping goods, so on. I would be more than pleased to discuss matters such as these with you, but I would request we do it in more private a location.”

“Of course my lord. I imagine you will be needing accomodation...” Petyr Baelish supplied.

“I thank you for any offer you might make, but I have sent my son and my ward ahead to secure a suitable living quarters at my own expense.” Jacen interupted, raising a hand, “I wouldn't wish to burden the crown.”

“Of course” Baelish said, while the small councilors and the gold owl made their way to the Small Council Chambers.

When they arrived, they each found familiar seats, and Jacen sat himself in a chair brought to the table by a well mannered serving girl. She smiled prettily, but Jacen ignored her.  _ Clearly hoping I might plant a bastard I her. She'd have more luck with my eldest. _

“Lord Mertyns, you were going to tell us about these documents.” Varys supplied as the large stack of papers was put on the desk by ser Braith with a loud thud.

“ I was,” he separated the pile into three smaller stacks, denoted by a particular size of paper. He held his hand out to the first stack, “These papers deal with our money changing department. I founded this first, before the rebellion. It mostly involves safely moving money from one place to another, and ensuring anyone that uses it that, should they call upon one of the many armories stationed throughout Westeros, Essos, and the Summer Isles, they can take money that they have already deposited, for a fee of course.” Jacen explained, being certain to give details that show innocence, “The way it operates is, when we receive money, we send ravens to inform the bank just outside of Mistwood. Then, we keep all the branches full to a certain amount of money, which we maintain by getting messages every day on how much money was taken in and put out. We simply instruct the branches to send the money in well guarded caravans to the locations it's needed. Simple, safe, and effective, and incredibly good at making money.”

“We all know about how that branch gets on. It is what earned you your nickname.” the master of whispers commented, looking at Jacen's hard, brown eyes, “And what of the other two.”

“Forgive me , lord Varys, I had simply done it for clarity,” Jacen explained with a smile, and pointed to the highest of the three stacks, “This, my lord, is the basic accounts of the shipping we conduct. It is quite complicated work, you understand, because while we own the ships, we do not buy the goods that are moved, so we have to keep careful records. We started this after my darling daughter had the idea to for merchants to share a ship, when she was but a child. The investors buy portions of the goods that are moved, invest the gold used to buy them, then, supposing all goes well, the goods are moved and they get the lions share of the profits, minus of course a small fee for the maintenance of the vessel.”

“And, no doubt, growing your own coffers, Lord Mertyns,” commented Littlefinger.

Jacen spread his hands, “I do not do this work out of charity, no.” Jacen pointed to the last group, the smallest pile, “These documents are accounts from our personal finances. We buy things like buildings, ships, we hire mercenaries to defend our shipments. All these are simple transactions that are accounted here.”

“The one pile that doesn't make money, my lord?”, asked Varys, raising a soft palm over it.

Jacen smiled, “In my experience, lord Varys, one must spend money to make money.”

“Qu...quite so... my lord.” the Grand Maester said as he drifted off to sleep.

Petyr Baelish smiled a devilish smile, “You must tell me how you managed to get this all together.”

Jacen smiled,  _ not bloody likely, _ “Perhaps one day. Though I'll warn you, it is most... unbelievable.” Jacen rose from the table, “I'll assume that you will inform your fellow councilors of what I have disclosed here. I will leave these documents to you, lord Baelish, as master of coin, and I'll be on my way.”

“Leaving so soon, my lord?” Varys asked as he turned to leave.

Jacen smiled, “I have to ensure my son hasn't squandered the family fortune on a shack in flea bottom, lord Varys. Good day.”

After they left the room, Jacen quickly made for the horses and rode the rest of the way back to the mansion in silence. Gods, he hated this town. It was busy, but needlessly so. Not like the methodical and determined gate of Yi Ti or the colors and beautiful, multicultural chaos of Qarth, or even the strange beauty of White Harbor or Oldtown. It was carrion, rotting flesh that had been too long in the sun, overfull with maggots and all the worst of the world's abominations.

At least they had somewhere nice to stay. When he reentered the buidlding, he found that his staff had already brought the documents inside in great bundles, while his ward was busy getting lost in the many adornments of the place. He followed the way to the smithy and found his youngest son working something, clearly testing out the abilities of the facility.

“Gareth, lad, what is it you're working on?” Jacen asked, seeing the great array of tools being used.

“Just a new type of Ballistae bolt.” Gareth answered, and Jacen could see that the heads for the bolts he were making were, rather than flat or pointed ones, four long edges that combined at a point on the top then flexed away from each other.

“That doesn't seem any better than the old kind, lad. And how will you be attaching it to the shaft?”

Gareth looked up and smiled, “You hammer the shaft on. It cuts itself into the head ad won't let go, but when it hits its mark the head will be pushed out of the shaft, and keep flying past the first target.”

“Indeed? That seems fanciful,” Jacen commented, smiling at his son's ingenuity.

“Yes, and it means we'll need less septons as well.” Gareth commented.

Jacen cocked his head to the side, “Why?”

“Well, if the head kills someone, it wasn't the person who fire it's fault, it's the arrow for having a loose head.” Gareth replied with a smile that clearly meant he thought it quite clever.

Jacen sighed, “Lad, the person who fired the bolt is still at fault.”

Gareth looked surprised, “Father?”

“whoever started the action that lead to harm is at blame. Say there was a trial,” Jacen began, “and the defender was falsely accused. The persecutor wanted to impress the old, frail but well respected judge, so he put in false evidence to convict him. The judge, in his advanced age, took it into consideration without thinking that it could be forged, and the man is put to death. Who is to blame?”

Gareth sat still and scrunched his eyebrows in thought, “The persecutor, for giving false evidence?”

“No, the accuser, who brought the accused's honor into question in the first place. The other two are not blameless, but their actions would have been impossible if not for the accuser.” Jacen replied, smiling.

Gareth contemplated this, then, suddenly his eyes widened and he turned to see the piece he was making melting in the heat of the flame, “Seven hells!”

Jacen laughed, “Come on, lad. Perhaps it would be better if you made it smaller, for a crossbow, mayhaps. Then we could test it.” he added, his eyes gleaming in the firelight.

Gareth turned and gave an eager nod before spinning to fix the mess he had made. Jacen exited the room, and made his way to his solar. There he found, on the desk, the work he had prepared for his arrival. The first item was a checklist, things he had to do in the first few days in the city.

 

_ Establish household _

_ Meet with small council _

_ Visit the bank _

_ Send out reports _

_ Review the events on the isle. _

 

Jacen sighed, and went to the next item, a letter containing the manifest of a ship that had gone missing in a storm. He looked at it, and the attached complaints of the investors. The cost of the goods was low, however, and so Jacen decided a simple recompense would more than suffice.

The next was a report on his fleet's happenings. He looked at the counts, thirty in Bravos, twenty in Pentos, thirty in Tyrosh, another fifty in Qarth, twelve in both Plankytown and Sunspear, another two dozen spread around the seven kingdoms, all at harbor to carry trade goods. He nodded, knowing that this fleet was only his name, that, in reality, they were shipping goods that gained him money by risking that of other people. He gave a wicked smile when he thought of it and gave another one now.

The next report was on the fleet he owned, but he had to wait on that one. It was coded, a technique the Yi Tish had shown him. It would take a while to decode, and that was deliberate. Should this fall into the wrong hands he would gain all sorts of... unwanted attention.

Jacen sighed, and leaned back in his chair. He would resolve all of this another day, but he knew he was in grave danger. This city was just as vicious as ever, and he knew he had to be careful, if he didn't want to find himself paying for his sins.


End file.
